In Medias Res
by peaseblossoms
Summary: Post HIt/Run. Emily's new start at Interpol London isn't as fresh as it appears. Starting in the middle of things, she is immediately devouted to racing the clock to solve the first major case, with a little help from the BAU, as well as someone who is perhaps more than a partner and supervisor, which brought an eerie sense of déjà vu and a flood of memories...
1. Prologue: Dream Within a Dream

**Disclaimer: I own very little...**

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_Is Everything that we see or seem, but a dream within a dream? _

_~Edgar Allen Poe_

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_London Underground, London, United Kingdom, 08:05, 16 July, 2012_

The tube train trailed to a stop with quiet finality, a hydraulic gasp inevitably followed, and then silence.

For the initial moments, everyone in the crowded carriage remained relatively motionless. And eventually, as the stillness and the silence began to register, eyes flickered. Standing passengers peered worriedly through the windows into the ominous darkness of the Underground, as if seeking some explanatory vision of revelation.

They were halfway between Waterloo and Westminster, Emily Prentiss calculated. It was five past eight on a Monday morning. She is almost certainly going to be late for the first day of work, again. As the smell of other people 's damp clothes lingered around her, and soggy book bag, not her own, nudged near her lap, Emily felt a rather peculiar sense of Déjà vu.

Resting her chin on her silky navy scarf, Emily leaned back into her seat and carefully extended her legs. She should have worn her usual convenient black boots instead of these fancy heels, which she'd bought a couple of weeks earlier on the first of a series of supposedly light-hearted shopping trips since her relocation. She hadn't stayed here for any extended period of time since that fateful day nine years ago when she met her first profiling team, and now, watching the leather around the toes beginning to curl up from the soaking it received on the way to the station, she mused at how similar everything seems or seemed, despite all the people, events and emotions in between.

After seven years staying stateside while working for the Bureau, Emily admits that despite all that stayed the same, things did indeed change. Some are quite subtle, though many remain strikingly obvious. Take the clothes issue, for example. Today she has mostly adhered what may be known as the accepted look, a routine she had noticed years ago that most people seemed inevitably to fall into, which lay somewhere between sombre and invisible. Dark trouser suits, neat skirts and jackets, sensible shoes – the sort of stuff you found in Marks and Spencer or Bloomingdales.

While she never actually took this to extremes, like some of her colleagues who eventually cultivated what some people call an almost Soviet drabness which, more than a decade ago, the young Emily instinctively subverted. Although at that point her punk college years were already behind her, she nevertheless used to spend the rarely free Saturday afternoons combing the antique clothing stalls for quixotically stylish bargains which, while they infringed no Agency rules, certainly raised a few eyebrows. Even though she no longer had the heart to spend time and effort to display her individuality, Emily can't help but smile as she remembered her friend, the Oracle queen of Quantico, whose forever joyful spirit can make the team notice the hope and beauty in this world despite the disproportional amount of tragedy and atrocities they see. She felt it to be a little fey to be fighting the same wars herself at forty-one, but something inside her still silently resisted being submerged by the gravity and secrecy of work, previously at the CIA and the Bureau, now at Interpol's London Gateway Office.

Intercepting her smile, a strap-hanging commuter looked her up and down. Avoiding his complimentary gaze, Emily ran a visual check on him in return, a process which has long became a second nature to her. He was dressed smartly, but with a subtly fastidious conservative air which was not quite of the City. The upper slopes of academia, perhaps? No, the suit seemed hand-made. Medicine? The well-kept hands supported that idea, as did the benign arrogance of his appraisal. A consultant with a few years' private practice and a dozen pliant nurses behind him, Emily decided, headed for one of the large teaching hospitals.

Inclining her head in satisfaction, Emily once again touched her cheek to the silky indigo nap of her scarf, enveloping herself in a faint, pleasant scent which brought Clyde's physical presence – his eyes and his smile and his voice – rushing home to her. It may seem a little ironic, that after a decade she is one her way to see the same supervisor, although the states of affairs are so very different.

She remembered him buying her the perfume from Guerlain on the Champs Elysées while JTF-12 was in Paris. Its a wildly inappropriate act, needless to say, but considering the circumstances at the time, he offered a silky rationalization that there is nothing improper with him casually doting on his "wife". The original bottle has long been exhausted, but Emily continued to use this particular scent despite its price and rarity, for reasons she herself cannot explicitly explain. Perhaps, in the time of troubles and a job of danger, there are certain pure moments of familiarity that she, even without admitting, wanted to cling onto.

And the scarf is from the fancy Hermès store on the Avenue Montaigne. According to the delicate card that came in the signature orange box, this surrealist design is know as L'Mechanique Du Temps: _The Mechanics of Time. _She thought this little touch is eerily appropriate for the sense the Sigmund Freud describes as the "uncanny"- a sentiment of Déjà vu shared no doubt by the both of them, despite the passage of time.

She distinctly recalled every detail of their last night in Paris. It was their team's last assignment before the fateful Doyle mission, and after Clyde finished debriefing with the general at the Counterterrorism Alliance Base, he had returned abruptly at the flat in the Quatier Latin where they've shared for six months posing, quite convincingly, as husband and wife. She had allowed herself to sink deep into the plush pillows, half-heartedly listening to _Avoir un Bon Copain_ and trying to make sense of a report in one of their many files. Suddenly there he was, and soft silks and cottons fell onto the polished wooden floor. The place was then filled with the delicate fragrance of _L__'Heure Bleu_.

Afterwards they shared a light bottle of _Carruades de Lafite_ while admiring the beauty of the Parisian night. 'Shouldn't we be tidying up the place instead of lingering in prodigality?' Emily had asked with a sense of guilt.

'Sean's people can clean up after us, like they always did,' Clyde answered gleefully, 'while we, darling, can enjoy our final official night undercover.'

'The scarf is gorgeous, but...'

'Love, it suits you.' Came his usual simple reply, and she never argued.

Despite being very close with him for years, both work and otherwise, Clyde Easter had remained an enigma to Emily. He is both meticulous and pleasure-loving, and possessed of an almost feline perceptiveness – qualities which not only made him one of the best spies and profilers the SIS has to offer, but also a superior with one of the most fluid leadership styles Emily has ever encountered. She did tell him that Hotch is the best, but it nevertheless amused her how equally effective, but drastically different, their leadership styles are. Hotch understood the weight of responsibility and would carry the whole burden on his own shoulders if he deemed that it is necessary in order to protect his team. Clyde offered his team considerably more freedom and flexibility because he recognize that it is often imperative for the team to work productively. Judging from the eventual fate of the JTF members, perhaps he was too liberal. Judging from the fact that he kept her on the need-to-know perhaps he wasn't.

And sitting there in the halted train, it occurred to her that their relationship beyond the work sphere is a concept she cannot quite grasp. Their love, or rather, love affair is so casual that it can be characterized as blithe. It was no more the the occasional night in Prague or Lyon or Edinburgh, or where ever the team happens to be stationed. Emily can't help but criticize his "bad timing", but as Clyde reasonably pointed out, on their job there is never a good time. She flinched at the idea of categorizing their relationship as "friends with benefits". They admired and respected each other too much for that. It is more that they needed to seek solace in the arms of someone that understood the job, whom they can trust with not only their lives, but also the occasional secret and insecurities.

During those rare moments when she's honest with herself, she admits that she'd missed him. No matter how much she hated the fact, due to her drifting experience with her mother during her childhood and adolescence, she is incapable of staying in the same place for any extended period of time. She had thoroughly enjoyed the relative stability with her colleagues, and family, at Quantico, but after the Doyle incident she can no longer settle down. Clyde asked her if she'd "missed it." She did, but she also missed _him,_ perhaps more so than she's willing to acknowledge.

'Salut ma cherie,' Clyde had called the night before and she can't help but roll her eyes at his casually honeyed words, 'Its so great to have you back again. Tomorrow we can meet at my office in Vauxhall, go through with all the red tape and then introduce you to your team at the SOCA headquatres at Victoria, as well as the other five thousand people working in that building. Is there any social activity in particular you would prefer? A five course brunch perhaps?'

'You're really the paradigm of style, Clyde Easter,' She laughed.

'Just a suggestion,' he answered cheerfully, and she can imagine precisely how his lips curved into the characteristic smirk. "But in all seriousness, Em, I am really glad to have you back.

'I'll see you in the morning,' Emily replied with a smile, 'Au revoir, à bientôt!"

With a gasp and a long, exaggerated shiver, the tube train restarted. Emily snapped back to the present and realized that she was definitely going to be late.

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_Notes: SOCA: Serious Organized Crime Agency, the UK agency where Interpol's London Gateway Office, which Clyde asked Emily to run, would be hosted. It is headquartered in Victoria but has a office in Vauxhall, very close to the SIS building. I assumed that it would make_ sense_ for Clyde to head that liaison office because of his MI6 background._

P.S. What do you think of this? Its my first story, so all advice are desperately desired! Please review to let me know!


	2. Martinis, Girls and Guns

**Disclaimer: I own very little...**

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_Vauxhall Cross, London, United Kingdom, 08:43, 16 July 2012_

The SIS Building, the headquarters of MI6, is located besides Vauxhall Bridge, and colloquially known as "Babylon-on-Thames" within the intelligence community. It always struck Emily as quite ironic that Britain's most secretive agency occupies one of the most striking buildings in London. A vast and imposing edifice of aluminium and glass, reminiscent of ancient Ziggurats, it looms like a large, ominous ghost over the Vauxhall Cross.

This morning, as usual, the streets smelled of diesel fumes and the river. Cling onto her umbrella while braving the rain-charged wind, Emily hurried up the steps towards the main entrance. With a slight hesitation, she pushed open one of the specially designed doors to the lobby. She shot a quick smile at the front desk, where a young man in a dark blazer, neat flannels, smart shoes, and a posh blue tie, the regulation uniform of the service, awaited her. An anonymous man, thought Emily, who looked far too neat to have just got up. Emily Prentiss showed him her identification. The young man handed her a pass and led her towards the door without saying a word.

She slotted her pass into the barrier. A small light flashed green as the front of one of the security capsules opened, and she took a deep breath before stepping inside. She felt as if she'd travelled light years in the brief instant while enclosed. When the rear door slid open silently, she stepped out into another dimension, and another era. Vauxhall Cross is a temple, a fortress of glass and steel, much like the DGSE Alliance Base in Paris, and Emily felt a subtle shift inside her as crossed its security threshold, and was borne upwards to the eighth floor.

The elevator jumped slightly as it stopped to a hold, and the doors slid open noiselessly, exposing a maze of corridors before her. _The labyrinthine in a state-of-the-art Aztec temple_, mused Emily. The anonymous man escorted her through the outer office and into what must be Clyde's inner sanctum. The heavy wooden door opened, revealing a small reception room, where a young woman glanced up and smiled: "Emily Prentiss? Welcome, he's expecting you."

_She didn't mention anything about being late_, breathed Emily, _the damned Jubilee line, don't understand how can the train just stop_. Relaxing slightly as she glanced at the inevitably out-of-date copies Time Europe and the Economist. Then she stole a glimpse at the small baroque mirror on the wall to quickly check her appearance, and it returned an image of unexpected composure. Her straight, slightly damp black her fell more or less evenly around the pale oval of her face, although it has gotten longer compared to the last time they met in DC, under circumstances that are still painful for her to recall. Her dark eyes were a little bruised by fatigue, perhaps, but the overall result could serve, after all, he'd seen her in much worse. Encouraged, she followed the young woman to the office next door.

'Thank you, Lois." Clyde stood up, and waited for his secretary to leave the room and close the door. Yet not offering her one of the comfortably stuffed wingback chairs as Emily had expected, he strode across the room and enveloped her in a tight embrace, planting a kiss on each of her cheek as he so often did in Paris.

Emily smiled. With the coveted agent look no longer needed; Clyde is back to his sophisticated self, from the well-pressed suit, the polished shoes and the pale blue shirt that subtly brought out his eyes.

"Well someone has certainly moved up in the world," Emily commented as she noticed the antique maps that graced the oak paneled walls and the large Turkish carpet with intricate red and blue patterns on a muted green base, "when I first met you in Paris, if I remembered correctly, you had a desk in the same room as the three of us. Queen Anne style? This is a little decadent, even for you."

Clyde raised his eyebrows in mock offense: "Don't be quite so critical, love. I've only been here for a couple of months. The maps, carpet, books and files are mine, but most of the furniture, and décor, for this matter, are sort of _inherited_ from my predecessor, whom currently enjoys her retirement somewhere further up along the river. I considered about moving my things over, but then thought you might not particularly enjoy an office space with only a spare desk, a grey terminal, a touch tone phone and a FBI mug, which is flanked on one side by a combination-locked cupboard. So I left most of my stuff in my old workplace on the other side of the river, where, from today on, _you_ will preside. Figured you might be more comfortable that way. _And,"_ he added before she can inject an opinion, "My profiling skills might not be as exceptional as Agent Hotchner's correct me if I'm mistaken, when we first met in Paris, you weren't particularly fond of me."

* * *

_DGSE Counterterrorism Intelligence Centre, Paris, France, 08:53, November 19, 2001_

Emily Prentiss jogged across the polished floors of the Alliance Base, dragging a rather large suitcase behind her. Her cheeks are still red from the chilly november air, but she couldn't be more bothered about it as she pressed on upwards.

The Joint Task Force number twelve, abbreviated simply and blandly as JTF-12, of which she is now a member, is an organization coordinated by interpol to which the western agencies supposedly contributed their best and brightest. She's not sure if she's supposed to feel flattered by the nomination. _Perhaps they thought it was convenient that I spoke all four of interpol's official languages_, she thought bitterly, _or perhaps they no longer want to deal with me._

And now she's late for their first meeting together.

To her great relief, Emily saw that although the doors to the conference room were open, no one has sat down yet. _Thank goodness! _She would not have to endure all the patronizingly patient glances that she has seen much too often at long oval hardwood tables. Just inside the doors stood a bullish man who talked quietly to a dark haired young woman, who listened with obvious attentiveness. _The beginning of a pas de deux, perhaps?_ Emily thought with a smirk. She's also quite pleased to discover that one of her future team members are still missing, which means that she is not the last person to arrive.

Sean McAllister, the Interpol agent with whom Emily has already met in DC, assumed an expectant attitude by the window: "We're waiting for Six. Your team leader, in fact, if he manages to show up eventually. It wouldn't hurt for you to catch your breath and adopt an attitude of saintly patience"

Emily attempted to do so. She looked out of the massive windows onto the busy Parisian streets, still congested with cars spilled over from the morning rush hour: "So what's the whisper on our new Unit Chief?"

"Besides the fact that he's apparently a perfect specimen of the Vauxhall Cross genus? He's also an old Harrovian."

Emily groaned inwardly, "Remember the joke about a lady walking into a room occupied by three former public schoolboys? The Etonian asked her if she'd like the sit down, the Wykehamist pulls up a chair, and the Harrovian..."

"...Sits in it" Sean replied with a thin smile, "Precisely."

Emily had just turned her attention back to the street, when Sean looked over her shoulder and proclaimed happily: "I think we finally have a full house!"

The MI6 portion of JTF-12 is represented by Clyde Easter. Tanned and blue-eyed, his flannel suit murmured unmistakably of Savile Row, he cut a glamourous figure in this otherwise nondescript gathering. There's something funny about him, and she can't quite describe what it is, until the large man by the door took one look at him, and drawls, in a rather convincing Russian accent: "I vas vandering ven ve meet again, Meester Bond!"

"You won't be able to get away with it this time," Clyde managed with an accent worse than Sean Connery's, "So I see you haven't lost your delicate sense of humour, Agent Wolff."

Clyde is then welcomed into the room and introduced to the team. Hands were shaken and Sean moved smartly across the room to close the door. To Emily, imbued as she was in a serious and restrained culture back at the CIA, Clyde appeared slightly preposterous. For a man of his age, and he looked no more than thirty-four or -five, he was much too expensively got up. His good looks- the dark blonde curls, the level blue gaze, the sculpted nose and mouth- were far too emphatic. This was an individual, and every ounce of her professionalism rebelled against the idea, whom people would remember.

With pleasantries done, Sean informed the team that besides from graduating at the top of his class at Cambridge, Clyde was also a Royal Marine decorated with the Conspicuous Gallantry Cross, a fact that is later referred to by Garcia as "_as_ O_h hello as it gets", _he saved three of his men in Bosnia.

Clyde raised his hands in modest demurral, "Welcome to JTF-12. As all of you are very well aware, this team is formed in response to the World Trade Centre Atrocity. Our respective government agreed that there must be no question of terror-related intelligence being compromised by the lack of communication or turfs wars of any kind. Interpol proposed the creation of this special task team, composed of Germany's _Bundesnachrichtendienst,_ represented by Agent Jeremy Wolff, the French _Direction Centrale du Renseignement Intérieur, _by Agent Tsia Mosely, and the American _Central Intelligence Agency, _by Agent Emily Prentiss. I myself, as all of you have already know, is British SIS. Besides from working closely with each other, we liaise with Agent Sean McAllister here from Interpol, as well as various local police office where we operate. In addition to our main mission to profile terrorists, we are also responsible for the coordination of operations relating terror networks and the setting of intelligence targets. These are immense responsibilities in challenging times, but I am nevertheless exceptionally honoured to lead a team of tremendous talent."

Despite Emily's acute irritation that Clyde pronounced the names in such a way that it became abundantly clear that he at least spoke German and French like a native, he made a point that she was in no mood to argue with. In her years with the CIA, she had never felt such an unflinching unanimity of purpose.

Or at least until Tsia, the young frenchwoman with serious brown eyes, inquired rather pointedly: "With all due respect, sir, before you finally managed to make an appearance we were all quite curious: how did our CIA counterpart here make it all the way across the Atlantic before you even crossed the Channel?"

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_Clyde Easter's Office, Vauxhall Cross, London, United Kingdom, 09:30, 16 July 2012_

"So why were you late for our first team meeting in Paris?" Emily asked, silently delighted to notice that Clyde still wore the watch she'd given him as a token of thanks in Prague. After, all She has been quite curious for many years.

"Ah, well, that. I recall telling Tsia, in arrogant, typical Legoland fashion, that I was _otherwise occupied,_" Clyde smiled, and a slight twinkle reached his blue eyes, mesmerizing Emily as it did so many years ago, "But if I tell you now that the Eurostar just bloody stopped in Waterloo station, would you believe me?

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_Notes: So what do you think? Do you like how the story's going? Please let me know, all advice and criticism are highly appreciated! The BAU will also_ make_ an appearance soon, in the next two chapters according to how things look now, when Emily and Clyde request their help working on a very serious case ;) _


	3. Memento Mori

**Disclaimer: I own very little...**

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_Emily Prentiss' Apartment, Marylebone, London, United Kingdom, 18:05, 20 July 2012_

Emily arrived back at her flat in Marylebone after a rather uneventful week. Although small and charming, the place lacked the warm homely feel. It wasn't so much inhospitable than uninspiring; the rooms remained foreign even though most of her familiar possessions already occupied much of the space. The artworks still seem to be making peace with the unfamiliar walls. The mute shaded carpet contrasted starkly against the polished wooden floor. Books remained patiently in half-opened boxes.

Sergio isn't adapting to the new environment too well either, at least according to the look of things. He'd better be warming up to the new English food soon, or the bag brought over, intending to serve as a transition, is going to run out soon. The only thing than seemed to interest him at the moment is the tiny flashing red light on the landline.

_And why does the place feel so hot_? Emily checked the air conditioning and was confused slightly when it read "29". _Right, Celsius,_ she gave herself a slight mental kick. Dialling the control all the way down to "21", she heard the fans springing to life with a light click, delivering a cheerful breeze almost instantly.

For the next thirty minutes, when the cool air gradually circulated around her new flat, she did more unpacking. With the books standing rather proudly in the handsome walnut cabinet, she retrieved a ready-to-cook cottage pie and absent-mindedly pierced the foil with a series of small incisions. _Would the plastic melt while heating up in an oven set at the wrong temperature? Am U about to poison myself? _She thought before sliding the package into the oven, carefully checking the instructions on the back of the wrapping.

There were two messages left on the phone. The first was from Garcia. Emily almost called back when she realized that with the time difference, it is only midday back in the States, and her eccentric friend is almost certainly in her lair tracking the cyber world for the BAU. It won't hurt to wait a few more hours.

The second was a dinner invitation from Clyde.

"Forgive me for the hideously short notice, darling," flowed the familiar unhurried voice from the answering machine, "and I'm sure you've already made more _practical_ plans for this lovely evening, but there are some thoughts I would like to… cogitate on, with you, if I may."

She smiled, rolling her eyes subconsciously. She had previously considered his blithe attitude British smugness, but judging from the sensible, down-to-earth manner with which her very capable Scotland Yard colleagues worked, she concluded that this sentiment is uniquely Clyde. Nevertheless, it always amazed her how he made her week- whether the business of international police collaboration or counter-terrorism- seem like one really long cocktail party. _Cogitate_? That's a fancy word she would never use. Whether working with JTF-12 or the BAU, she always anguished, and always did so alone.

But_ why not?_ His invitation held tremendous appeal beyond the obvious reasons. She promptly called back, and he picked up just before the third ring.

"Bonsoir ma belle," he said happily, before she even opened her mouth, "I'm so glad that you've decided to accept my offer."

"You know, I was just preparing myself…"

"Ah yes, well, supper with me will definitely be better than any Gastropub ready meal, wouldn't you agree?"

"Alright," she sighed, remembering the delightful restaurants all across Europe that he would take the team whenever the opportunity arises.

"Wonderful! I'll come over and pick you up."

"Actually its okay, I can easily…"

His words cut airily across her, "Just come downstairs, at seven o'clock. I'll see you there."

"Alright."

She hung up, feeling a curious anticipation. After ravaging through her new wardrobe, she discovered with dismay that most of her cocktail dresses remained tightly packed in boxes. The only article of clothing that seems to be suitable for both the occasion and the weather is the classy dress she wore for JJ's wedding. Furrowing her brows slightly as she pulled out the matching pair of ribbed silk shoes, she wonders whether or not it is appropriate for her to wear the same dress that carried a special piece of BAU memory. At this point she wouldn't realize how fittingly prophetic the whole situation would seem only hours later.

* * *

_Piccadilly Circus, London, United Kingdom, 18:47, 20 July 2012_

Meanwhile, in another part of town, three men prepared to cross Jermyn Street to the acclaimed Fortum and Mason's bar, _1707_, on the other side of Piccadilly, to try out some wine.

"Hold on a moment, mate. I'm a bit dizzy," muttered the Australian as he clutched the arm of one of his two companions, "quite dizz-" and he collapsed, unconscious. Unable to rouse him, his friend called out for help from the passersby. One of the crowd, recognizing their identifications, immediately fetched a policeman from his new corner post, who was stationed as part of the increased security for the upcoming Olympic Games. Quickly evaluating the situation, the policeman commandeered a cab from the nearby stand. He ordered the driver to take the patient and his companions to the nearest emergency room. After helping to ease the unconscious man, who is quite tall and muscular, into the cab, the officer hopped onto his motorbike and provided a police escort for the trip, complete with sirens blaring.

* * *

_Marylebone, London, United Kingdom, 19:03, 20 July 2012_

Emily pushed open the front door of her apartment building and was greeted by the warm July breeze, as well as a quaint silver birch Aston Martin DB5. _He's got to be kidding..._

"So, Emily, how are you this evening?" Clyde asked as they slid into the slow-flowing traffic.

"I'm... fine."

"Excellent."

She looked out of the window and watched the greens of Regent Park as they drove down the famous Baker Street that remains almost surreal, "So, to what do I owe the pleasure..."

"Well, even though I am your superior, technically speaking, we no longer collaborate directly on cases. I was hoping that we can nevertheless catch up with each other over dinner, like old friends. What can I ever do without you?"

"As far as I know, you didn't have me for the majority of your career or your life, and even if you did, I doubt that I'm anymore than the _asset_ that you find valuable enough to _keep tabs on." _She snapped back, regretting her tone almost immediately. That sounded far too defensive, and he is probably just trying to be friendly.

"I'm sorry about the short notice," Clyde said softly after a moment, looking at her with serious blue eyes.

"Its... alright. As you know, I'm not exactly a lady who gets to out to dinners often."

"They probably didn't offer you anything more than a sandwich and a glass of milk all day. The least I owe you is a decent meal."

She didn't complain as they passed through Oxford Circus and entered the glittering streets of Mayfair. Pulling up by an impressive arcade on Piccadilly, Clyde parked the car in his usual untroubled manner, strolled across to opened Emily's door for her.

"Hungry?" He asked, grabbing the dark blue jacket from the back seat.

"Starving." She replied truthfully, as he lead her through the busy and attractive atrium and into the lift that brought them several floors up. When the doors opened again, an elaborately decorated cream-coloured Louis XVI setting was revealed.

"This is quite lovely," she noted as they were taken to a seat in the corner overlooking Green Park. Close by, a noisy member of Parliament was telling a blonde half his age that the Prime Minister had been locked in a meeting because 'they were discussing my amendment to the new defence plan'. The blonde looked suitably impressed, even if the maitre d' didn't.

"I'm assuming he's referring to the plan that involves putting a battery of high-velocity missiles on the roof of the Fred Wigg Apartment building?" Emily asked quietly as she looked around.

"That, well, is an unfortunate piece in the elaborate jigsaw of security for the London Olympics that made its way to the BBC." Clyde replied thoughtfully, "keeping this information on a need-to-know-until its construction-from the residents does indeed appear to be a terrible idea."

The maitre d' reappeared with two large menus and handed them to her customers, 'I can recommend the smoked salmon and the steak,' she offered with a flicker of a smile.

* * *

_Hyde Park, London, United Kingdom, 19:52, 20 July 2012_

A few miles away, two men from Japan were completing their late night jog around the famous Serpentine before retiring to their rooms at the Hotel adjacent to the park. One of them collapsed so quietly that he's running partner didn't even notice. Several seconds later, a young couple, taking a romantic stroll as others have done in this storied park since time immemorial, called after him. The two runners had passed them, then one dropped. When the second kept runner, the couple at first suspected mischief on his part. In response to the repeated calls and realising he was now alone, the jogger stopped in his tracks and hurried back the several meters to where his partner lay face down.

The men's identification badges stirred a certain interest in the two observers. There have been constant, heavy media coverage in anticipation to this global event. They were quick to offer their help and together, the three lifted the unconscious man onto a nearby stone bench, next to the bronze Edward Jenner Memorial. The man remained motionless; there were no marks on his body indicating violence of any kind, and nothing in the pathway appeared to cause him to stumble.

The young Londoner made an emergency call on his mobile. Help, though prompt, came too late. He was actually dead, as the autopsy report would confirm, when he hit the ground.

* * *

_Palm Court, Mayfair, London, United Kingdom, 20:41, 20 July 2012_

The commotion broke out just as they were about to try the house special, chocolate souffles. The door of the arriving elevator had just slid open to reveal the slumped body of a man in the far corner. The pianist stopped abruptly as a woman's piercing voice filled the air before the gasps of the crowd.

"Oh, My God!" She shrieked, "Help, someone! Get a doctor."

The elevator door started to close, but Clyde, with his espionage instinct and law enforcement experience, already managed to edge his way to the front of the crowd and reach in to lock it in place.

At the same time Emily managed to locate the short gentleman with a goatee who identified himself in German as a doctor. He huddled over the body briefly, then demanded an ambulance. Clyde dashed the few flights of stairs to the chief receptionist in the lobby, quickly identified himself and exchanged a few words. He then rushed back to help Emily to try and restrain the crowd hovering around the doctor. The receptionist flew into action immediately. She telephoned the emergency services for help and buzzed the manager on duty, who was already on his way out of the office in response to the escalating hubbub in the restaurant.

Emily and Clyde identified themselves and offered their aid to the manager as soon as he arrived. Following a quick appraisal of the situation, the manager attempted to usher as many as possible from the alcove towards the bar across the restaurant. Urging the reluctant on-lookers to move along, he begged them to respect the individual's privacy and need for medical attention. When this approached failed to break up the crowd, he took Clyde's suggestion and offered an immediate round of drinks on the house as an additional incentive. At this, many corporate, moving slowly in the direction of the bar. Another employee assisted them in shunting new arrivals around the scene.

To the credit of the London Emergency Service, the ambulance arrived within five minutes. As the team moved across the restaurant, Emily saw Clyde watching the paramedics load the body onto a stretcher with a grim expression.

"What is it?" She asked quietly, knowing that something could be seriously wrong.

* * *

_Notes: So, how do you think things are going? There will be more clarifications in the next chapter, but clever readers like yourself can possibly infer what its about. The BAU will also make an appearance very soon~_


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